


Happy Fuckin' Christmas

by gloria_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Lestrade and Mycroft’s first Christmas together, and Lestrade has something special planned. Unfortunately, the British government rarely gets a day off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Fuckin' Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [second_skin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/gifts).



“I’m sorry, Greg. The meeting’s run long and I’m going to be late.”

Greg grimaced but tried to keep the disappointment and annoyance out of his voice.

“Ah well, can’t be helped I suppose.”

“It’s only a minor delay. I’ll be home in time for cocktails.”

“Right. See you later then.” Greg sighed and dropped his mobile on the granite counter of Mycroft’s gourmet kitchen. The best laid plans and all that rubbish, he thought. One quiet night before the storm of family visits began – was that too much to ask? He’d been lucky to get the evening off himself, and had held out hope that Mycroft’s schedule would hold. Tomorrow they’d be spending Christmas Day with the Holmes clan; Boxing Day was reserved for the Lestrades. It would be a full forty-eight hours of non-stop family togetherness and drama. Greg made himself up a gin and tonic and took a swig, before busying himself with the dinner preparations.  

The hour for cocktails came and went with no word from Mycroft. Just as Greg made up his mind to call, his mobile rang.

“There’s a bit of a domestic affair that’s come up. I’ll be a bit later than I expected.”

“That’s okay, I put the roast in late,” Greg replied, gritting his teeth. “It still has at least an hour to cook.”

He hung up and poured himself another gin and tonic.

The roast was done and out of the oven, and Greg was contemplating a third drink. His _where the hell are you?_ call to Mycroft went directly to voicemail. He knew Mycroft would have picked up if he weren’t indisposed. Normally, Greg would have waited for Mycroft to respond to the missed call, but he was beyond irritated at that point and the gin wasn’t helping his patience. He punched in three letters and jabbed the send button.

 _ETA_

The answer came nearly twenty minutes later.

 _Start without me. Home by 10, latest. Sorry._

Greg made a frustrated growling noise and fought the urge to chuck the damn mobile across the room. He lost the battle, but was at least mindful enough to walk out to the sitting room and aim it at the sofa cushions. The MET would give him grief for having to replace yet another phone this year.

He went back into the kitchen and made himself up a plate: roast pork, his famous sprouts with bacon, candied yams (mum’s recipe, rest her soul), and a green salad (Mycroft’s health consciousness had started rubbing off on him). On his way out, he tucked a bottle of Bordeaux under his arm and grabbed the cork screw off the counter.

He took a seat at the dining room table and tucked in, trying not to feel too sorry for himself. Having the night off certainly beat doing paperwork or mucking about at a crime scene, and it wasn’t like Mycroft really _wanted_ to be away. Besides, he was used to eating alone. So why did the sight of the unlit taper candles sitting between him and Mycroft’s empty place bother him so much?

Maybe it would have been easier going for that A&E nurse, he thought after his second glass of wine. But her schedule was just as crap as his. That’s what having the crap schedule of a cop did for you – the only people you ever met had crap schedules too. Even now that he had someone in his life, he still wound up spending the holiday alone. Fucking crap schedules!

After polishing off a third glass, he started to feel a bit more festive. He wandered out into the sitting room and pulled the MP3 player from its dock. He dialed up _Christmas Playlist 2_ , set it back in the dock, and hit play. Of course they had to have two playlists. Mycroft thought contemporary artists like Springsteen and the Vandals had no place next to the likes of Handel and Mendelsohn.  He could be such a sodding prig sometimes, Greg thought fondly.

He turned the volume up, then bounced and gyrated his way back into the kitchen to do the washing up.

"Oi to the punks and Oi to the skins but Oi to the world and everybody wins!" he sang over the noisy clank of dishes being clumsily rinsed.

“Father Christmas, give us some money. We'll beat you up if you make us annoyed,” he belted out as he brushed the crumbs off the fine linen table cloth.

By the time the final chorus of _Fairytale of New York_ came on, he’d finished up and was making his way out to the sitting room with the last bit of Bordeaux in his glass.

“And the bells were ringing out for Christmas Day,” he mumbled and slumped down onto the sofa. He was feeling warm and merry, indeed, and the lights twinkling on the tree and amongst the fir branches adorning the mantel were beginning to put him in a romantic mood. Poor Mycroft, stuck in the office with some world crisis on his hands – really ought to do something special to make it up to him. Greg grinned and gave an impish little chuckle as he thought of the perfect thing.

He took a small wrapped gift from under the tree and placed it on the coffee table amongst a neatly arranged selection of Belgian chocolates – Mycroft’s favorite, ordered special, and more expensive than any sweets had a right to be. Then he dashed into the kitchen and came back with a set of two clean wine glasses, as well as a bottle of a dessert red which the sommelier at Harrods had recommended to pair with the chocolate.

Once he was satisfied with the aesthetics of the arrangement, he went to the mantel and began untangling the string of fairy lights from the fir branches. He stripped off his kit and wound the lights around himself from arse to armpits. He was quite pleased with the effect, until he tried to sit down on the sofa again.

“Bloody hell fucking bloody little shits!” he yelped, jumping up again as the sharp plastic of the light covers jabbed into his delicate flesh. He couldn’t very well stand in the corner until Mycroft got home, so he abandoned the lights in a heap on the floor and cast about for a Plan B.

A large box wrapped in silver paper with a big, red satin bow caught his eye. It was a gift for his nephew, selected by Mycroft’s personal assistant and professionally wrapped care of Hamleys; Greg had no idea what it even was. But the bow, well that looked long and wide (and soft!) enough to work.

There were several unsuccessful attempts, the results of which resembled a sloppy satin diaper that either fell off with the slightest motion or restricted his circulation to an alarming degree. After much cursing and fumbling, he finally opted for a simple belt ‘round the waist with the bow strategically, and gently, incorporating and mostly obscuring the twig and berries, so to speak. Still, it looked a bit plain. He tucked in a couple of red and green candy canes from off the tree for added color. He briefly contemplated dangling one of Mycroft’s fancy, antique glass ornaments from his Prince Albert – a remnant of a bygone life he’d been reluctant to part with. Besides, Mycroft seemed to enjoy it. Well, he didn’t complain about it. Actually, he never mentioned it, aside from that one exclamation of surprise the first time he’d gotten into Greg’s pants.

Greg grinned at the memory, and fell back onto a pile of cushions on the sofa. He poured himself a sample of the dessert red and settled in to wait.

He was awoken rather grudgingly from his slumber by the quiet clink of glass on glass. The only light in the room came from the fire, which had been built up and was merrily popping and crackling in the grate. It took several long moments of staring blearily at the clock on the mantle before he was finally able to make out that it was some time after two in the morning. An instrumental version of _Greensleeves_ played just on the edge of hearing. Mycroft was home, then. Greg yawned and ran a hand through his hair, then propped himself up on one elbow to look over at Mycroft seated in an armchair across the room, glass of wine in hand.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes,” Greg said with a grin.

Even in the quasi-darkness, he could see (or rather, infer) Mycroft’s weary, drawn features and furrowed brow. “I am so sorry, Greg, you know I…”

“Never mind that,” Greg waved him off. “Have you tried the chocolates, yet? They’re meant to go with the wine.”

Mycroft got up and crossed the room. He set his glass down on the coffee table, and then knelt down beside Greg.

“I have my eye on something far sweeter,” he said, pulling Greg in for a kiss with one hand, and gently tugging on the loose end of the red bow with the other.

****


End file.
